


Watershed

by JinjoJess



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/F, Post-Canon, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22767502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinjoJess/pseuds/JinjoJess
Summary: Dorothea is smart enough to know that nothing ever really changes.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Watershed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miss_Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Prince/gifts).



> Friend is having a rough day, so this is Operation: Cheer Her Up.
> 
> Also if no one else is going to help me build up Wife Squad, I'll just do it myself.
> 
> As always, Satomi = Byleth

Normally, after a particularly promising date, Dorothea ran calculations in her head. 

It was surprisingly easy to estimate the value of a lord's estate based on key indicators during the date itself. The value and reputation of the restaurant, the quality of the meal, the gifts' practicality to price ratio, the suitor's dress and mannerisms, their familiarity with high art… Each point was like a bead on an abacus, sliding one way or the other. 

For instance, tonight's suitor was a small time lord, with a reasonably profitable estate but little in terms of notoriety or prestige. He'd presented to Dorothea a series of useless trinkets he'd obviously overpaid for--the practicality to price ratio skewing far too high--and he'd reserved a table for them at a flashy new restaurant with terrible food but ostentatious numbers next to the dish names on the menu. The fabric of his coat was imported from overseas, but it clashed with the Brigidese fur ruff he kept draped around his shoulders and the Faerghean leather gloves he insisted on rubbing against Dorothea's hand. He bragged about having visited the finest theaters in Enbarr, but couldn't name a single show. 

Everything this man did reeked of desperation, frustration roiling under the surface of his tight smile, as if at any moment he might snap and begin tearing his hair out at the injustice of not being able to buy status and respect. 

Dorothea considered offering a hint or two as to how to come across less gauche and better emulate the proud, established families she knew this man idolized, but in the end she thought better of it. His main interest in her assuredly came from her prestige in the opera as both a performer and composer, to say nothing of her personal connections to the highest Lords and Ladies of Adrestria. 

Social counseling services would be better left a surprise bonus later in the marriage, after her voice and beauty began to fade and her fingers became too frail to pluck out original tunes on a piano or lute. It was always best not to hit your highest notes too early; marriage was a long-term performance, one that required a few stored solos for the later acts. 

By this point, Dorothea could probably do quite well for herself as an accountant or image manager to one of her former classmates (Goddess knew Bernadetta could benefit from her help). Yet something about that arrangement chafed her. Perhaps it was that it felt vaguely predatory, charging a friend for things she'd happily offer for free. Or maybe it had to do with the question of what would become of her should she outlive her employer, as widows were better set up for that eventuality than former employees. 

There was also the chance that Dorothea was just traditional…or that somewhere, deep in her heart, she still believed in and enjoyed the idea of being someone's wife. 

Not to a snooty noble, of course, but to someone. 

Or rather to the  _ right _ snooty noble, should they come along. 

Though that was a silly fantasy; despite all of her toil, despite the war, nothing had changed. Not really. 

Dorothea stepped into her apartments, shedding her finery like a snake's skin and collapsing onto the couch. She arranged her mail in a neat pile on her table, having fetched it from her letterbox on the way in. 

Even as the most distinguished composer in Fodlan, Dorothea could not bring herself to rely on servants. 

It was difficult enough to accept them when visiting friends. Most of her fellow Garreg Mach alumni had encouraged their own hired help to not trouble Dorothea during her visits, but the servants in the Hresvelg Palace remained ardent in their work, as if to match their master's stubborn resolve in the face of adversity. 

How did Satomi stand it? 

If Dorothea were the empress consort ( _ ha! _ a bitter tone sounded within her soul at the thought), she couldn't imagine dealing with that all day. 

Perhaps the Imperial servants were easier to dismiss as mistress of the palace than as a guest. 

It was not as if Dorothea would ever know. 

Her fingers rifled through the envelopes she'd brought inside: bill, invitation from a suitor, invitation from a friend, bill, review of her latest opera, reminder from Manuela about their lunch next week, hollow proclamation of love, receipt for that new dress she'd bought… 

Dorothea bit her lip as the next bit of mail came into view. Her fingers traced the smooth surface of the gold leaf envelope, careful to avoid the blood red seal holding it closed. It felt dangerous, menacing, as if touching it would burn her. 

There was nothing written on the outside of the envelope, but there didn't need to be. Even if the twin-headed eagle of the Imperial seal wasn't enough, the faint traces of Hubert's cologne wafting off the paper confirmed it. 

Dorothea toyed with the letter, debating whether to open it. Oh, it would be opened eventually, whether she liked it or not. The Emperor didn't write anything without the expectation of a response, and when her patience waned, Dorothea would smell that subtle Vestra cologne in a more immediate way. 

Things never changed, after all. 

No use fighting the current. Might as well deal with it now. 

Dorothea slipped a finger under the envelope flap, decapitating the eagle on the seal. She removed the thin paper from within, noting the lightweight texture. 

Rice paper. Imported, obviously, at a significant cost, but capturing every stroke of the writer's quill with crisp contrast. 

The perfect balance of practicality and price, only apparent to someone with an eye and appreciation for art. 

_ Dearest Dorothea, _ it opened, and a ripple of pain caressed Dorothea's heart. 

_ Apologies for the lapse in correspondence. I have only just returned from a sojourn to meet with Claude. He remains as irritatingly yet charmingly cavelier as you may remember from our school days, but he has so far proven to be one of my most valuable advisors. He has implemented some of the social programs you suggested last time we met wonderfully in the North.  _

_ During the visit, we were discussing some of your more recent shows, and it occurred to me that I had yet to see your latest, so last night Satomi and I attended a showing at the main theater.  _

_ While I applaud the skill of your understudy, I suspect that certain elements of the show are heavily autobiographical, and I hope you recover soon so that I may see you perform them in the future.  _

What a polite way to frame a command, Dorothea thought. 

_ To allow myself to be frank for a moment, both Satomi and I were quite hoping to see you. I had your understudy leave the flowers we brought in your dressing room, but it was with keen disappointment that we were unable to speak with you post-curtain call as is our custom.  _

_ We always miss you dearly when our duty takes us from the capital, but I must confess that seeing a new opera of yours without seeing you has made me feel your absence all the more keenly.  _

_ Satomi feels similarly, though she expresses it differently. She has just entered my boudoir to ask that I allow her to include a message directly from her: _

Here the handwriting switched from tight, flowing script to larger, utilitarian print. 

**_Please come visit soon, Dorothea. We miss you!_ **

_ There you have it. It is rare that I echo my wife's thoughts so plainly, but in this case I'm forced to agree that she has phrased it best.  _

_ We miss you, Dorothea. Please visit the palace at your earliest convenience.  _

_ I will send Hubert by your residence at the close of the week if I do not hear back by then.  _

_ Your loving friend always,  _

_ Edelgard _

**_and Satomi!_ ** __

Taking care to control her breathing, Dorothea reread the last few paragraphs. 

She'd have to arrange for a nice fruit basket for Odilia, her understudy, as an apology for having to field Edelgard and Satomi after the show. Filling in for Dorothea was likely nerve-wracking enough without the Emperor and the Captain of the Guard interrogating her backstage. 

Glancing through the letter again, it at least seemed like Edelgard had enjoyed the new opera. 

This time Dorothea had allowed herself a break from extolling great figures' great deeds and glorifying the war that had left her emotionally scarred, and instead had told a smaller story. A common narrative in reality, but oft forgotten by the arts: the story of a young girl scraping together a living on the streets of the capital. 

Though it was set just after the war, Edelgard had been right in that many of the events had been lifted from Dorothea's own experience. Most of them, in fact. 

Dorothea picked up the score to the newest opera and placed it beside Edelgard's letter on the table. 

At the end of the story, the heroine's intelligence and mettle helped her escape her poverty and offer aid to others in need. It was an ending Dorothea had penned not because she believed it, but because audiences clamored for happy endings. 

And yet. 

Not so long ago, Dorothea had been the heroine of her latest show. Dirty and wretched, forgotten and unloved, never knowing where her next meal would come from. 

Now here she sat, famous throughout Fodlan, with a letter from the imperial couple of Adrestria before her, begging for her company.

Perhaps things did change. 


End file.
